


You Wanted To Think Of Yourself As Someone Who Didn't Think These Kinds Of Things

by AdelaClancy



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Angst, Canon Compliant, Destiel - Freeform, First Meetings, Gay, Internalized Homophobia, Internalized Misogyny, M/M, Slow Burn
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-12-13
Updated: 2020-12-12
Packaged: 2021-03-10 20:35:20
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 12,174
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28033251
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/AdelaClancy/pseuds/AdelaClancy
Summary: A canon re-write of the story of Dean and Cas through their twelve year long journey to self-acceptance and love. Castiel was an angel, a being that wasn't meant to ever feel as intensely as he does once he lays his hand on that man in Hell. And Dean Winchester was a man filled with self-loathing, who never believed himself worthy of love. Both spending years unwinding their father's lessons from their necks and taking off their blindfolds keeping them from seeing the love sitting right in front of them.We'll be going through every Dean/ Cas relevant episode to rewrite into a condensed novel format, focusing on their internal struggles they were never strong enough to admit to. At least until the end.
Relationships: Castiel & Dean Winchester, Castiel/Dean Winchester
Comments: 2
Kudos: 4





	You Wanted To Think Of Yourself As Someone Who Didn't Think These Kinds Of Things

The beginning of any story really depends on who's doing the telling. And who was doing the telling here really depended on the part. Dean would say his story ended where he should’ve stayed, Hell. Castiel, on the other hand, would say that this story had hardly even begun. He'd say that destiny had a plan. So, we start with them both, muddled somewhere in the middle. When a creature from Heaven laid his hand on the shoulder of a soul in Hell, giving them both a second chance. 

Dean Winchester was a righteous man. 

If you were to ask him, he'd say he died because he was too selfish to live without his brother. If you were to ask that same brother, he'd say Dean was just about the strongest, most selfless soul he'd ever met or ever would meet. Dean had put his life on the line for the innocent more times than he could count, sacrificed his entire life and soul so his little brother could get even a fraction of the happiness he was never able to find for himself.

Dean Winchester used to be a righteous man, but now he was no different from the billions of other broken, malleable, shredded souls in the pit. Bloodied, war-torn screeches for help, elation built off cries of pain, dark insidious souls swarming in the heat of a fiery incarceration. Here, there wasn't anything remarkable about him anymore. Seconds spanned lifetimes in the dark tunnel of eternity where time didn't exist, but it did.

This was Hell. It turned even the greatest of men into something they'd scarcely recognize, but even worse: something those they loved wouldn't recognize.

Then it was silent. It was cold. Dean saw a bright white light for what felt like the first time in a millennia. Like waking from a nightmare after taking a nap in the impala, and someone's headlights sped by to burst you awake. A gentle touch burnt into his shoulder, too, and for a moment he almost let himself believe that it really was Sam nudging him awake in the back seat after a nightmare. It was dark again in an instant. Sam wasn't there.

The silence remained. Dean gasped in a thick, ragged breath. And another one, spasming into coughs. He couldn't seem to gulp in enough air. His fingers clamored around at his sides, finding a lighter in his left jeans pocket.

Click.

As the heat of the flame licked around his fingertips, a soft glow illuminated the warped wooden panels placed mere inches from Dean's face. He stared up at them, dirt sifting through the crevices into his eyes. The panels continued down the length of his body and boxed him in on every side.

"Help!" Dean tried to scream but only a hoarse cry erupted, his throat straining and dry, "Help!"

He slammed his hand against the coffin boards above. The wood shook around him, loosening the dirt the smallest amount onto his face. He punched again and shoved, hoisting all his strength into the boards above. Splinters finally started weakening the panels until suddenly . . . a collapse.

The weight of loose earth crushed against Dean's newly living flesh. He clawed through it, pulling himself up farther and farther just waiting to breathe again. Closer and closer. His hand broke the surface. Then the other. He clawed and clawed at dead grass surrounding the narrow opening until his head breached the surface.

Dean Winchester was alive.

He gulped in air. Fresh air. Tore himself from the ground one tug at a time until his legs too were finally free and he could rest, just for a moment, in the grass. On Earth. Amongst the living. The sun on his skin was just another small token of humanity to savor if only for a short time. Because as happy as Dean was to be alive, there were just too many questions rapidly filtering through his mind that needed to be answered. Starting with how in the hell did he get there?

This question was only emphasized as he got to his feet, realizing the trees surrounding the gravesite had fanned out dead, fallen to the ground in a tidal wave. Some big, bad kind of mother had to have been involved to do something as big as this. He'd seen necromancy before, and how it killed the ground around the risen. But nothing ever like this.

Sammy, what did you do?, he wondered. 

Dean pushed forward, a million thoughts passing through his mind like daggers- about Sam, about Lilith, and Bobby… about Hell- almost all things he did not want to think through too heavily just then. So he focused on the task at hand. One thing at a time.

Trekking forward, there was a road not too far from the gravesite. He started walking, shedding his top layer to tie around his waist. The sun was high noon, beating down on the back of his neck and stinging in the most human way possible. Not like the heat of the pit.

The silence was what Dean couldn't shake the most. The buzzards singing, birds chirping, the sound of the wind through the trees... Everything was heightened, the air around him empty. Sounds that used to be comforting, even soothing, now felt wildly out of place.

He'd been walking at least a couple of miles before coming across a podunk gas station at the crossroads of a dirt street. Nothing surrounded the tiny building for miles but grass and a few trees spotted here and there. Two old-school cars sat out front, though not a soul looked to be anywhere in sight. As he got closer, he realized the sign at the door read closed. It didn't stop him from knocking anyway.

"Hello?" His throat was even dryer than before.

It was clear no one was there. With a last peek around, Dean untied the shirt from around his waist and bunched it around his hand, softening the blow to his skin as he punched the glass from the door's windowpane. Not one soul came running at the sound.

The first move he made was to the fridge, uncapping a water and chugging it entirely within seconds. He gulped in a deep breath once the water was gone. A pile of newspapers sat on a shelf just beside him. He grabbed one. It read: "Pontiac Daily Gazette: Thursday September 18, 2008."

"September…" Dean said to himself. Four months in the ground. Just four months. His soul had been gone a lot longer than that, he knew. But with only four months having passed, the greater chance things hadn't changed all too much since his 'untimely departure.' The greater chance Sam was still alive.

Dean found his way to the sink just on the other side of the mart; a mirror was placed above it. He ran the chilled water through his fingers, splashing some on his face. It was the first time he'd seen his face in... well, who knew how long. It was almost foreign to him. Like he didn't recognize the man who stared back. But it wasn't just that. His body... what kind of strange mojo brings back the dead in a brand-new body, unscarred? Even Sam, when he’d come back, had light red scarring where the blade went in severing his spine.

He remembered being torn apart. Hellhounds scratching out his insides from all corners as Sam watched on, unable to help, screaming for Lillith to make it stop. The last tear went straight through his chest, blood gushing through the fillet chunks of skin left. But when Dean lifted his shirt in the mirror, not a trace was left. His skin was completely unmarred.

Not completely, he realized. His left shoulder had been burning since he left the ground, and he'd been ignoring it. With all the thoughts running through his mind, it had been the least of his worries. Dean lifted up his sleeve, finding a red, blistered handprint on his shoulder. It looked human, but wasn't. It wasn't like anything he'd ever seen before in lore, in person, or through other hunter’s stories. Nothing. But Dean was certain of only one thing: it meant something very, very bad ahead.

Dean grabbed a plastic shopping bag and quickly started loading it with snacks, candy bars, water bottles. He paused next to the shelf of skin mags, smiling to himself as he snatched up a copy of 'Busty Asian Beauties' and perused the pages a moment. In the bag it went. Essentials only. 

He'd already been to Hell and back, so Dean didn't have many qualms about raiding the register for all the place was worth, either. It was necessary, and as soon as he could get the hell out of dodge and figure out just what was going on, the better.

A fistful of change jangled into his pockets as static erupted on the mini tv just behind the register. Weird. Dean flicked it off, and the radio on the edge of the counter flicked itself on at the same moment. Country music and static filtered from it. The tv switched itself back on again to static.

Moving fast, Dean grabbed a canister of salt from one of the shelves and started to line the closest window. A high-pitched ringing bursted through his ears, building and building to a higher pitch. Dean grunted, covering one ear while still trying to form the salt barricade with his free hand. But it became too much as the sound rose. He covered both ears, collapsing to the ground. The window in front of him shattered. Dean moved, trying to make his way out of the building when another window shattered, and the other, this one blasting Dean against the countertop and to the floor.

Just like that, it all stopped. Silence.

What in the hell? He wondered, tentatively moving his hands from his ears and peeking around. Shattered glass surrounded Dean where he lay splayed out on the floor. His head still pounded, but the attack had stopped as suddenly as it began. He peered out the window, maybe expecting to see a demon or two. Or at least something. But… nothing. 

\+ + +

There was an old payphone booth in front of the station. the first number Dean tried was Sam's.

The dial chimed, "We're sorry. You have reached a number that has been disconnected."

Dean hung up, trying not to read into it, but a small part of his chest tightened. Sammy had to be okay. He put in a few more quarters and dialed another number.

"Yeah?" Bobby's voice greeted him on the other end.

"Bobby?"

"Yeah."

"It's me."

"Who's 'me'?" Bobby asked plainly, as though he didn't recognize the voice on the other end.

"Dean!"

Dial tone. He couldn't blame Bobby for not believing it was him. He'd probably do the same thing in the old man's shoes. But he had to keep trying. Another few quarters later, the phone rang again.

"Who is this?" Bobby answered, a dead flatness to his voice.

"Bobby, listen to me-" Dean begged.

"This ain't funny. Call again and I'll kill you."

Dial tone.

There wasn't gonna be any getting through to the man this way. He'd have to show Bobby his living, breathing flesh in person. A hard pill to swallow. One he could barely choke down himself.

It was a hefty drive to Sioux Falls from Illinois. Dean eyed an old, beat-up white car off to the side of the phone booth and smiled. It took a minute or two to hotwire her back to life, but when she did, she roared.

The world hadn't changed a whole lot in four months. It was odd to see firsthand how life just trekked on after you died. The birds still singing, babies crying, sun shining... the whole nine. All while you're just a body rotting away in the ground. A hell of a thing to think about. He hoped that it was as easy for Sam, and for Bobby, to move past his death. Though he knew that wouldn't be true. He knew like hell he'd ever be okay with something like that. He’d fight tooth and nail to get Sam back from Hell if roles were reversed.

Dean rode straight through to Bobby's, only stopping for gas a couple times as needed and peeling out of the station as though the devil himself nipped at his heels. When he finally rolled into Singer Salvage, he jogged up the steps to the front door and hammered a few knocks, mentally prepping himself with the right words to say.

Bobby opened the door. He wore his usual baseball cap paired with dirty jeans and a flannel over an even dirtier tee. Dean smiled cautiously at the old man whose eyes widened with an apprehensive surprise.

"Surprise." Dean said, offering a smile. Surprise was a mild word for his surrogate son coming back from the depths of Hell, but it was the best Dean had at the moment.

"I, I don't…" Bobby sputtered.

"Yeah, me neither." Dean took a step through the doorway, closer to Bobby. "But here I am."

Bobby swung a silver blade from behind his back, lunging at Dean. But Dean was faster, grabbing Bobby's arm and twisting it around behind his back. But the man was more spry than he looked, and quickly managed to break free, swinging a hit at Dean's face with the opposite arm and landing it.

Dean stumbled back, "Bobby! It's me!"

"My ass!" Bobby took another swing, but Dean evaded, tripping up past a rolling chair that he nabbed as a shield between the two. He held his hands out as an act of surrender.

"Whoa, whoa, whoa, wait!" The words spilled out of him to prove his identity, "Your name is Robert Steven Singer. You became a hunter after your wife got possessed, and you're about the closest thing I have to a father. Bobby. It's me."

Bobby's eyes were still wide, but he took a cautious step towards Dean, lowering the knife. Dean still held his hands out, eyeing Bobby, unsure whether he was believed or not.

He wasn't.

Bobby placed a hand on Dean's shoulder, still holding his eyes. Dean started lowering his guard, and that's when Bobby struck again. He slashed the blade up, Dean dodging. They struggled; limbs entangled as Dean tried to do nothing but keep the blade from connecting with his neck. He didn't want to hurt Bobby, and that gave him the incredible disadvantage. Bobby was out for blood.

"I'm not a shapeshifter!" Dean grunted.

"Then you're a revenant!" Bobby was wracked with rage to this monster playing tricks in the worst way possible. Showing him the kid he loved like family, but wasn’t him. Just like the phone call just a few hours earlier.

Dean's strength finally won over Bobby's rage infused swings, and he nabbed the knife. He backed up a few feet, holding the blade out in front of him with one hand and the other extended in an act of pause.

"Alright!" He said, "If I was either, could I do this - with a silver knife?"

Dean rolled up his sleeve, and sliced his upper arm just above the elbow. Grimacing, blood dripped down the blade. No burning skin. A reaction all human.

Bobby was dumbfounded, looking from the cut to Dean's face as though seeing him again for the first time. "Dean?"

"That's what I've been trying to tell you."

All preamble had been dropped as Bobby stomped forward without another word and threw his arms around Dean in a near desperate embrace. Dean wrapped his arms around Bobby, trying not to break under the realization it was the first time he'd been held kindly in decades. It was the most human he'd ever felt in his small existence.

And the last time Bobby had seen him? Dean couldn't help but think about Bobby and Sam carrying his shredded-up body out of that house all while knowing where his soul had been tugged down to. This reunion likely held just as much weight for Bobby as it did for Dean.

They pulled apart, Bobby really looking at Dean for the first time. "It's… good to see you, boy."

"Yeah, you too."

"But… how did you bust out?"

"I don't know. I just, uh, I just woke up in a pine box--"

Suddenly Bobby splashed water onto Dean's face. Dean paused a moment and spit off to the side. He should've expected that.

"I'm not a demon either, you know."

Bobby shrugged with an innocent smile, "Sorry, can't be too careful."

He grabbed a towel from the counter and tossed it to Dean, who caught it with one hand. Dean wiped his face, both men starting towards the study.

"That don't make a lick of sense." Bobby said.

"Yeah, you're preachin' to the choir."

Bobby paused behind the desk, "Dean, your chest was ribbons. Your insides were slop. And you'd been buried four months. Even if you could slip out of hell and back into your meats..."

"I know. I should look like a "thriller" video reject."

"What do you remember?"

The question Dean was most afraid of answering. What didn't he remember? He knew of course he was gonna be asked. On the drive up, it was something he struggled with: should he tell them or should he just carry that burden himself? Maybe they deserved to know. And maybe it would bite him in the ass later on, but for a little while at least he just didn't want to be looked at like the monster he was. After everything, he just couldn't face that yet.

"Not much. I remember I was a hellhound's chew toy, and then… lights out. Then I come to six feet under, that was it."

Bobby took a seat at the desk, incredulous. Likely thankful for Dean's "fortune".

"Sam's number's not working. He's uh-- he's not…" Dean continued, not sure he wanted the answer.

"Oh, he's alive. As far as I know."

Dean closed his eyes and let out a breath. If he was a religious man, he'd have thanked God. "Good… Wait, what do you mean, as far as you know?"

"I haven't talked to him for months."

"You're kidding. You just let him go off by himself?" Sam, on his own, in grief. That was not a good formula. And paired that with the fact that Dean himself just popped out of the ground without a clue how...

"He was dead set on it."

"Bobby, you should've been looking after him." Dean pinched the bridge of his nose, a whole mess of thoughts running through his head.

"I tried." Dean looked up, sobering at the heartbreak reflected in Bobby's expression. "These last months haven't been exactly easy, you know. For him or me... We had to bury you."

"Why did you bury me, anyway?"

"I wanted you salted and burned. Usual drill. But… Sam wouldn't have it."

"Well, I'm glad on that one."

"He said you'd need a body when he got you back home somehow. That's about all he said."

That couldn't be good. That couldn't be good at all. "What do you mean?"

"He was quiet. Real quiet. And then he just took off. Wouldn't return my calls. I tried to find him, but he didn't want to be found."

"Oh, dammit, Sammy." He went off the grid. Months and Sam had been alone, probably poring through every lore and text he could get his hands on about Hell. There was bound to be a demon powerful enough to dig him out, and dammit, Sam had found it.

"What?"

"Oh, he got me home okay. But whatever he did, it is bad mojo."

"What makes you so sure?"

"You should have seen the gravesite. It was like a nuke went off. And then there was this… this force, this presence, I don't know. But it, it blew right past me at this fill-up joint. And then this…" Dean stripped down his jacket, pulling up his sleeve to reveal the fresh, red hand burnt into his shoulder.

Bobby stood rapidly, eyes wide and not leaving the brand as he moved to inspect it closer. "What in the hell?"

"It was like a demon just yanked me out. Or rode me out." Dean thought back to the blazing white light. The soft touch on his shoulder. But he couldn't form a picture in his head of what, or who, it could be.

"But why?"

"To hold up their end of the bargain."

"You think Sam made a deal?"

"It's what I would've done." Hell, he had done it. He'd probably do it again, too. But this? It was something else completely outside of his mental encyclopedia of powerful demon types. Dean paused a moment, covering up the handprint again. "I've gotta make a call."

He headed to the kitchen, snagging one of Bobby's many spare cells from the drawer. The digits for the phone company rattled around in his head and he dialed them in. He and Sam always used the same one, it was doubtful his brother would shake things up now. After standing on hold a few minutes, a woman finally came through on the other end.

"Arc Mobile, how can I help you today?"

"Yeah, hi," He answered, "I have a cell phone account with you guys, and uh, I lost my phone. I was wondering if you could turn the GPS on for me."

"Alrighty, we can do that for you today. I'll just need a name from you, darlin'."

"Yeah. Name's Wedge Antilles." Bobby shot him a look, and Dean shrugged.

"Last four digits of your--"

"Social is 2-4-7-4."

"Okie-dok. Your GPS is all set--"

"Thank you." Dean flipped the phone closed and crossed the kitchen back to Bobby's desk where the laptop sat.

"How'd you know he'd use that name?" Bobby trailed behind him.

"You kiddin' me? What don't I know about that kid?" The browser loaded up on the screen and Dean typed in the address for ARC Mobile and logged in. As it loaded, slowly, he glanced around the desk cluttered to the brim with books, scrap notes of paper, and pocket-sized bottles of liquor. One bottle he picked up, looking to Bobby. "Hey, Bobby? What's the deal with the liquor store? What, are your parents out of town or something?"

Bobby sighed, "Like I said. Last few months ain't been all that easy."

Dean held his gaze for a moment, feeling the weight his death must've had on him, and looked away. He thought back to all that time ago when Bobby first found out about the deal Dean had made. How angry-- no, not angry... grief stricken, he got. Sometimes it was easy for he and Sam to just break Bobby's heart without realizing. "Right."

Luckily the laptop beeped, taking Dean's attention back to his task. A city map splayed out across the screen with a single blue dot. An arrow pointed to it read the address: 263 Adams Road, Pontiac, Illinois.

Dean leaned back in the chair, "Sam's in Pontiac, Illinois."

"Right near where you were planted."

"Right where I popped up. Hell of a coincidence, don't you think?"

\+ + + 

They packed up Bobby's ride and hit the road. It was dark by the time they rolled up to the address: a dingy motel with a pink neon sign out front reading Astoria. They got the room number for a Mr. Antilles with a couple of Benjamins at the front desk. Some things never change.

The walls were lined with a dark wood paneling from the 70s, matched by a deep maroon carpet. Each number on the door was inside of a bright red heart. A real love shack. They finally came up to number 207, and knocked.

A young woman aggressively yanked the door open from the other side and peered between the two men. She was hot, Dean immediately noticed. A lean, beautiful brunette, wearing only a small tank top and undies. Her dark eyes stared expectantly.

"So where is it?" She asked.

Dean broke his gaze from her, eyes darting to Bobby and back. As if he'd have an answer. "Where's what?"

"The pizza… that takes two guys to deliver?"

"I think we got the wrong room." Dean was about to turn around when Sam stepped out from the bathroom. He didn't notice Dean as quickly.

"Hey, is-" Sam stopped dead in his tracks as his eyes fell on Dean, who awkwardly smiled at his little brother. Sam's eyes just flicked between Bobby and Dean, wide with shock. He looked like he'd just showered, wearing a grey tee and some jeans. His hair was a bit longer than Dean remembered, as though he'd just let it overgrow in the few months since…

"Heya Sammy." Dean swallowed, letting out a breath.

Seeing his brother was… well it was like taking that first gulp of fresh air in who knew how long. The relief relaxed his shoulders, weight lifting from his chest. All those years down there he'd been left wondering, fearing the worst. Had Sam gotten away from Lilith? Had she taken him for something else even worse? Did she use him, turn him into something not Sam? The questions had kept flying. There was no way for him to know the answers, no way to ever find out.

He figured he'd be deep fried down there for a millennia without the answer. And now… there he was. Sammy looked good. He looked healthy. He was okay. He was alive. If Dean were to be sent back to Hell in that very moment, that would be the one thought he'd grasp onto for decades.

Dean stepped forward first. The girl moved out of the way, looking between all the men in the room silently. Sam stood still, watching his brother enter without a single move or word. But as Dean got close, suddenly he pulled out a knife and lunged violently at Dean.

The girl screamed at the sudden chaos, backing up to the wall. Dean blocked the first attack, grabbing Sam's arm. Bobby rapidly entered the tussle and put his arms around Sam, struggling to keep his hold.

"Who are you?" Sam shouted against Bobby's grip, trying to wrangle free for another attack.

Dean just stood there opposite them, confused, not wanting to fight, "Like you didn't do this?"

"Do what?" Sam shouted again, still struggling. He really didn't know?

"It's him! It's him!" Bobby shouted over and over, "I've been through this already, it's really him."

Sam's features softened, the brothers staring at one another in different levels of disbelief. He still struggled against Bobby, though with less reserve. He wanted to believe it; he really did. "What…"

"I know." Dean approached slowly, hands out with caution, a small smile returning to his face, "I look fantastic, huh?"

Sam relaxed, staring at Dean as Bobby tentatively released his hold. His little brother's eyes watered as he took in the sight of the man before him- really took him in- for the first time since he walked through that door. He stepped forward and pulled Dean into a tight, furious hug. The same hug Dean had pulled Sam into after he‘d thought he lost him forever just over a year before. It was the desperation of holding onto the one thing you never wanted to lose. That you couldn't handle losing, and thought you had. He was home. 

They held one another with all their strength for a few moments. Dean closed his eyes, thankfulness washing over him and through his bones. Sam let go first, pushing Dean back to arm's length and looking him up and down. Dean knew he looked pretty good for hellhound kibble.

"So are you two like… together?" The girl piped in. Dean had forgotten she was even in the room.

"What? No." Sam scoffed, caught off guard, "No. He's my brother."

"Oh uh, got it. I… I guess. Look, I should probably go." She said, starting to scavenge her clothes and put them on. Her blue plaid blouse was beside the bed, she put it on swiftly and buttoned up. Dean turned away.

"Yeah. Yeah, that's probably a good idea. Sorry." Sam agreed, distracted, though still clearly trying to be polite. He found his own button down and tugged it on.

The girl had her belongings gathered up and headed to the door, Sam beat her to it first to opened it for her. That gentleman.

"So, call me." She grinned at him.

"Yeah. Yeah, sure thing, Kathy."

"Kristy." She frowned. Maybe not a gentleman. 

"Right." He offered a small smile and she mirrored one back before disappearing down the hallway.

Sam shut the door. Dean raised his eyebrows. Drowning himself in women in a cheap motel was more his style than it was Sam's. Maybe things had changed a bit more than met the eye.

Dean crossed his arms and stood over Sam as he sat to lace up his boots. Bobby mirrored this action.

"So tell me, what'd it cost?" Dean asked, his voice hardened.

Sam chuckled, "The girl? I don't pay, Dean."

"That's not funny, Sam. To bring me back. What'd it cost? Was it just your soul, or was it something worse?"

"You think I made a deal?"

"That's exactly what we think." Bobby piped in.

"Well, I didn't." He spoke softly, turning away.

"Don't lie to me." Dean near yelled. He hated how much he sounded like dad, but they couldn't keep doing this. Making deals in circles to save the other one? First dad, then him, now Sam? Not again.

"I'm not lying!"

"So what now, I'm off the hook and you're on, is that it? You're some demon's bitch-boy? I didn't want to be saved like this-"

Sam jolted to his feet, matching Dean's aggression, "Look, Dean, I wish I had done it, all right?"

Dean grabbed his brother by his collar, "There's no other way that this could have gone down. Now tell the truth!"

"I tried everything!" Sam broke away from Dean's grip, backing off, "That's the truth. I tried opening the Devil's Gate! Hell, I tried to bargain, Dean, but no demon would deal, all right? You were rotting in Hell for months. For months, and I couldn't stop it. So I'm sorry it wasn't me, all right? Dean, I'm sorry."

Dean sobered immediately. And he knew, in that moment, that he'd made the right decision to lock away the secret of just how long he'd actually been in Hell and what he'd seen. What he'd done. Who he'd become. Cause seeing Sammy like this? So much guilt on his shoulders and holding the grunt of responsibility over Dean- he just couldn't ever know how much worse it actually was. Sam's eyes were watering again while he struggled to compose himself.

"It's okay, Sammy." He relented softly, "You don't have to apologize, I believe you."

Bobby was looking between the two of them when he interrupted, "Don't get me wrong, I'm gladdened that Sam's soul remains intact, but it does raise a sticky question."

"If he didn't pull me out, then what did?"

\+ + + 

_Dean Winchester is saved._

Castiel had announced the news to the angels of his garrison, hearing the words echo through the chambers of their grace. He was humbled and honored to have taken the righteous man from his pit in Hell, aiding in paving the way for destiny’s plan. Saving a good soul from that sinister, dark hole, was a good thing all its own, but this one was especially important. 

He took care to reunite the soul with the body, stitching back together the atoms of his shredded corpse to make it whole again. Unscathed. He wished he could be able to do the same with the soul itself, which was marred with a type of trauma that only time and the soul itself could heal. The Winchester’s soul was strong, though, stronger than many others he’d seen in his eons on this Earth.

He took _incredible care_ , placing it back in the body. As he did so, Castiel was optimistic, hopeful even, that the man had the strength to overcome what had passed and what was ahead.

Since he was the angel to pull the Winchester from Hell, he'd also been assigned to his charge. This was a duty he was especially grateful for. After reuniting the soul and body, piecing him together, he wanted to see the rest of the man’s journey through. He was curious. He’d heard stories of the Winchesters, whispers really, and it intrigued him. They were interesting humans, unlike many others because their actions were frequently selfless. The entire family, at one point or another, had at least attempted to sell their soul for another to live. No demon deal was inherently admirable in its existence, but it was Castiel's thought that the reasons behind making one could forgive the sin. For love, for instance. Love wasn't an emotion he completely understood himself, as it was one made for humanity, but it was the one that most intrigued him about the species. What lengths that one emotion could make humans go... it was unlike fear, unlike anger, unlike anything within an angel's capacity. 

Leaving Heaven wasn't something he'd needed to do for a very long time, and finding a vessel would take a bit more. Perhaps, he thought, this "special" Winchester may have been deemed as such for a reason. He may be able to simply see Castiel's true form to communicate, and there would be no need for a vessel. It would be an easy enough theory to try out, he'd simply try speaking to the man first.

The Winchester had dug himself from his grave and broken into a pit-stop for sustenance. Castiel began reaching through the veil for contact. Slowly at first, triggering electronics to burst to life around the man, his voice too loud for them to translate or perceive.

Castiel began goading the conversation with the man's name. "Dean Winchester..." But the man didn't react to Castiel's voice the way he'd thought. The way that was normal. Instead, he grabbed salt containers from the shelf and begun lining a nearby window. How odd.

The man _had_ been a hunter in his previous life, so perhaps Castiel's sudden appearance was viewed more as a threat in its foreign nature. Castiel pushed again. "Dean Winchester, I mean no harm to you…"

The Winchester clutched at his ears, collapsing to the floor. As Castiel spoke again, a window shattered, spraying glass over the freshly made man. This wasn't right. 

The man took to a sprint to reach the exit, more windows shattering. He began screaming, clutching his hands over his ears.

Castiel silenced, backing off immediately. He didn't understand the fear in the man. Humans were sometimes confusing to Castiel, and this was one of those times. Perhaps it was too soon. Coming back from the dead and perceiving a friendly voice as a threat did not seem out of the realm of possibility.

Castiel had never returned from the dead himself, though he could imagine it must be a trying experience. Perhaps the man needed a time of adjustment first. He knew that the brother, Sam Winchester, was his closest attachment. Perhaps following this reunion, the man would be more apt to conversation the next time he was alone.

So Castiel waited, watching over him.

\+ + + 

Dean and Bobby sat on the couch of the motel room as Sam re-entered with three beers, passing two to the pair and sitting down opposite them.

"So what were you doing around here if you weren't digging me out of my grave?" 

"Well, once I figured out I couldn't save you, I started hunting down Lilith, trying to get some payback." Sam started, not meeting either man's eye.

"All by yourself?" Bobby interjected, voice an overlapping of anger and hurt, "Who do you think you are, your old man?"

Dean got up, crossing the room and taking a sip of his beer as he eyed something.

"Uh, yeah, I'm sorry Bobby. I should have called. I was pretty messed up."

Dean picked up a pink bra from the opposite end of the room. "Oh, yeah. I really feel your pain."

Sam scoffed and rolled his eyes, "Anyways, I was checking these demons out of Tennessee, and out of nowhere they took a hard left, booked up here."

"When?" Dean crossed back to the couch.

"Yesterday morning."

Dean looked to Bobby, "When I busted out."

"You think these demons are here cause of you?" Bobby questioned, meeting Dean's eye.

Sam looked between the two of them, "But why?"

"Well, I don't know -- Some badass demon drags me out and now this? It's gotta be connected somehow."

Bobby squinted at him, "How you feelin, anyway?"

"I'm a little hungry." Dean joked.

"No, I mean, do you feel like yourself? Anything strange, or different?"

"Or demonic?" Dean had been slightly worried about the same, but he'd rolled these thoughts over in his head so many times now he was dizzy. "Bobby, how many times do I have to prove I'm me?"

"Yeah. Well, listen. No demon's letting you loose out of the goodness of their hearts. They've gotta have something nasty planned."

"Well, I feel fine." More than fine, he felt alive. He felt whole and he felt more human than he had in a long time. More human than he had figured he'd ever feel again.

"Okay, look," Sam had that thinking look on his face, "We don't know what they're planning. We got a pile of questions and no shovel. We need help."

"I know a psychic." Bobby said, "A few hours from here. Something this big, maybe she's heard the other side talking."

Dean stood, "Hell yeah it's worth a shot."

"I'll be right back," Bobby muttered, and left the room, tugging his cell from his pocket.

Sam stood rapidly as Dean turned to the door, "Hey wait- you probably want this back." He tugged a cord out from beneath his collar, lifting it over his head and placing it in his brother's hand. It was Dean's amulet. The same he'd worn every day since Sam had gifted it to him all those many years ago as kids.

A pang went through his chest, "Thanks."

"Yeah, don't mention it." Sam looked on as Dean put the amulet back on, "Hey Dean, what was it like?"

"What, Hell? I don't know. I, I must have blacked it out. I don't remember a damn thing."

Sam nodded, searching his brother's eyes as Dean willed him to just believe it. "Well, thank God for that."

"Yeah." Thank God. What a phrase to choose.

The boys met Bobby by the exit and trailed behind him to the parking lot. "She's about four hours down the Interstate." He said, climbing into his beat up ride, "Try to keep up."

"I assume you'll want to drive." Sam pulled a set of keys out from his jeans and tossed them at Dean.

Dean caught them in one hand, turning to the impala in the lot with a grin. "Oh, I almost forgot!" He chuckled, running a hand along the top of the car. "Hey sweetheart, did you miss me?"

He tugged the door open, that familiar creak of old metal like music to his ears as he plopped into the driver's seat with a grin. His hands settled at the wheel, but his grin dropped at the sight of an iPod mounted to the stereo. Sam ducked into the passenger seat, smiling, before seeing Dean's stern look.

"What the hell is that?" Dean pointed at the iPod.

"That's an iPod jack."

"You were supposed to take care of her, not douche her up."

Sam scoffed, "Dean, I thought it was my car."

Dean rolled his eyes and put the key in the ignition, sparking the impala to life. A soft poppy song erupted from the stereo. He glared at the radio, then at Sam.

"Really?"

Sam shrugged innocently. Without another word Dean tore the iPod out from its place and tossed it in the back seat. He peeled out of the lot and tuned the radio into a classic rock station instead, the familiar rhythms of the song soothing away the memories swirling around in the back of his head. 

They spent a while like that on the road, slipping back into familiar quiet of just the two of them. Sam stared out the front dash at the taillights of Bobby's Camaro, or, taillight he should say. Bobby might've owned a salvage yard but he sure didn't keep up with the upkeep like Dean did the impala. 

Dean broke the silence first.

"There's still one thing that's bothering me." He said.

"Yeah?"

"Yeah.. The night that I bit it. Or… got bit." He chuckled lightly at his own joke. Sam didn't. "How'd you make it out? I thought Lilith was going to kill you."

"Well, she tried. She couldn't."

"What do you mean, she couldn't?"

"She fired this, like, burning light at me, and… didn't leave a scratch. Like I was immune or something."

"Immune?" That didn't sound good in the slightest. It had to have something to do with whatever had gone down with yellow-eyes. However glad he was that Sam was able to get outta dodge unscathed, in their experience whenever a lucky draw comes, something worse is just around the bend.

"Yeah. I don't know who was more surprised, her or me. She left pretty fast after that."

"Huh. What about Ruby, where is she?"

"Dead. Or gone."

Dean paused a moment, "So you've been using your, uh, freaky ESP stuff?"

"No."

"You sure about that? Well, I mean, now that you've got… immunity, whatever the hell that is… just wondering what other kind of weirdo crap you've got going on." Dean tried to choose his words more nicely than that but they all sort of just tumbled out.

"Nothing, Dean." Sam shot back, defensive, "Look, you didn't want me to go down that road, so I didn't go down that road. It was practically your dying wish."

Dean quieted, "Yeah, well, let's keep it that way."

They both went back to staring out at the road, this time Sam turning to the side and away from Dean's eyes. The sun started to peek over the horizon a few hours after that, and it wasn't long until Bobby pulled to a stop beside a little white house situated in the middle of an average small-town neighborhood.

Bobby exited his car and waved the boys to do the same and follow him up the steps. Wordlessly, they did. Bobby pounded a heavy knock on the front door and a drop-dead thirty-something young woman immediately opened it to them. Dean didn't know what he'd expected, but it wasn't her. Curly brown hair framed around a grin to put the Cheshire cat to shame, and pearly blue eyes lit up with just the type of troublemaking that lit his own. 

"Bobby!" She greeted the old man enthusiastically, pulling him into a bear-hug and lifting him off the ground. Damn, strong as hell too. Sam and Dean shared a look, raising their eyebrows.

"You're a sight for sore eyes," Bobby greeted.

The woman stepped to the side and gave a once-over to the two brothers, looking them up and down like something to eat. "So, these the boys?" She asked, not taking her eyes from them.

"Sam, Dean. This is Pamela Barnes, best damn psychic in the state."

"Hey." Dean tossed her a flirtatious smirk.

"Hi." Sam just said awkwardly.

Pamela focused her attention to Dean, "Mmm-mmm-mmm. Dean Winchester. Out of the fire and back in the frying pan, huh? Makes you a rare individual."

"If you say so."

"Come on in."

The three men followed the psychic inside and into a small den filled with a plethora of items you'd expect to see in a psychic's quarters. Old books lined a number of shelves, jars filled with numerous ingredients for spells, and a large circular table in the center like something from Scooby-Doo, save for the crystal ball.

"So, you hear anything?" Bobby asked.

"Well," She sighed, "I Ouija'd my way through a dozen spirits. No one seems to know who broke your boy out, or why."

"So what's next?"

"A seance, I think. See if we can see who did the deed."

Dean's eyes widened. Bobby seemed to have the same thought, "You're not gonna summon the damn thing here?"

Pamela smiled, "No, I just want to get a sneak peek at it. Like a crystal ball without the crystal."

She passed by Dean, gathering a number of items from a nearby shelf. "I'm game." He said.

Pamela snagged a tablecloth from a lower cabinet and spread it out over the table. It was covered in a number of symbols that looked familiar but Dean couldn't quite recognize. He figured Sam probably had more of an inkling than he did, but he looked down at it just as warily.

He turned back to Pamela, who'd squatted to rifle through a cabinet behind them. Dean noticed a small tattoo on her lower back scrawled in cursive that read: _Jesse Forever._ He elbowed Sam and pointed at it. Sam just rolled his eyes.

"Who's Jesse?" Dean smirked, containing a chuckle.

Pamela laughed, turning to Dean and Sam, "Well, it wasn't forever."

"His loss."

Pamela stood and grinned, now holding several large candles in her hands. "Might be your gain."

She passed by him and started placing the candles on the table. Dean turned to Sam, giddy, and lowered his voice, "Dude, I am so in."

"Yeah, she's gonna eat you alive."

"Hey, I just got out of jail. Bring it."

Pamela passed behind them and paused, winking at Sam, "You're invited too, grumpy."

Dean waited until she was out of earshot, then shot at Sam, "You are NOT invited."

Sam laughed. 

\+ + + 

Once Pamela had set the stage, she and each of the boys took a seat around the table. The room had been blacked out, save for six candles lit in the center of the table.

"Right. Take each other's hands." Pamela said gently. Dean joined hands with his brother at his right, and reached across the table to lock hands with Bobby. Pamela sat at his left, adding her hand lightly on top of Dean and Bobby's, and reached her right over to Dean. "And I need to touch something our mystery monster touched."

She slid her hand under the table and caressed Dean's inner thigh. He jumped. "Whoa. Well, he didn't touch me there."

"My mistake." She grinned.

Dean shelled off his outer layer again, and pulled up his sleeve to reveal the red hand print. It was the first time Sam had seen it, Dean realized, as he looked on with worry. Pamela placed her hand perfectly over the brand.

"Okay." She closed her eyes, and the others followed suit as she began to chant. "I invoke, conjure, and command you, appear unto me before this circle. I invoke, conjure, and command you, appear unto me before this circle."

A television behind her flicked on to static, just like the gas station. Dean's eyes fluttered open, anxious.

Pamela continued, her voice stern and unwavering, "I invoke, conjure, and command… Castiel? No. Sorry, Castiel, I don't scare easy."

Dean's eyes still open, he stared at her, "Castiel?"

"Its name. It's whispering to me, warning me to turn back." She stated fiercely, brow drawn together in determination. The static continued, louder, the table beginning to shake. She didn't stop, voice raising with each command. "I conjure and command you, show me your face. I conjure and command you, show me your face. I conjure and command you, show me your face. I conjure and command you, show me your face--"

The noise and rattling became more violent. The boys had completely abandoned the notion of keeping their eyes closed and now looked between one another in panic.

"Maybe we should stop!" Bobby shouted over the commotion.

"I almost got it!" Pamela was resolute, shouting, "I command you, show me your face! Show me your face now!"

Suddenly the candles flames flared up several feet in the air, and Pamela let out a bloodcurdling scream. Her eyes flew open, filled with a white flame eviscerating her orbs to crisp sockets. The flames died out rapidly, all commotion ceasing, and she collapsed to the table. Bobby caught her before she tumbled to the ground, and lowered her gently. She groaned in a pile on the floor.

"Call 9-1-1!" Bobby hollered. Sam scrambled from his chair to the next room.

Dean crouched over Pamela with Bobby, unsure how to help. She was still conscious and alive, but all of a sudden her eyelids flew open to reveal black, empty, charred sockets. They blinked, going wide as she sobbed.

"I can't see! I can't see! Oh, god!"

Dean and Bobby exchanged a horrified glance, knowing damned well they were in way over their heads.

\+ + + 

Dean sat in a diner a few hours later, putting in an order for a couple pieces of pie, while Sam linked up with Bobby on the phone for an update. His expression was grim.

"Be up in a jiff." The waitress smiled.

He barely nodded back; unsure he was even going to eat whatever he'd just ordered. But for whatever reason, going through the motions felt a little better than just sitting and stewing.

Sam came back to the table then, still at the tail end of a conversation on his cell. "You bet." He sat, flipping the phone closed.

"What'd Bobby say?"

"Pam's stable. And out of the I.C.U."

"And blind, because of us."

Sam sighed and sat back, "And we still have no clue who we're dealing with."

"That's not entirely true."

"No?"

"We've got a name. Castiel, or whatever. With the right mumbo-jumbo we could summon him, bring him right to us."

"You're crazy. Absolutely not."

"We'll work him over. I mean, after what he did?" If there was one thing Dean knew about monsters, they loved to talk. And talking to this one felt like the right play. He felt it in his bones.

Sam just looked at him incredulously, "Pam took a _peek_ at him and her eyes burned out of her skull. And you want to have a face to face?"

"You got a better idea?"

"Yeah, as a matter of fact I do. I followed some demons to town, right?"

"Okay?"

"So, we go find them. Someone's gotta know something about something."

The waitress reappeared with two plates of pie and set one in front of each brother. Sam thanked her, but instead of turning around to where she came from, she took a chair from the next table over and placed it next to theirs. She plopped down in the seat, looking at Dean.

Dean, confused, gave her a smirk. "You angling for a tip?"

"I'm sorry. Thought you were looking for us." Her eyes went black for half a second, before returning to normal.

The boys stiffened and exchanged a look. Dean glanced around the diner to each patron staring their way. One man headed to the door, locked it, and stood in front of it.

"Dean. To Hell and back." The waitress teased, "Aren't you a lucky duck."

"That's me." He stared her down.

"So you get to just stroll out of the pit, huh? Tell me. What makes you so special?"

"I like to think it's because of my perky nipples." He joked, but quickly turned serious, "I don't know. Wasn't my doing, I don't know who pulled me out."

"Right. You don't."

"No. I don't."

"Lying's a sin, you know."

Dean eyed her curiously, "I'm not lying. But I'd like to find out, so if you wouldn't mind enlightening me," He looked down at her nametag, "Flo…"

"Mind your tone with me, boy." She snarled, "I'll drag you back to hell myself."

Sam, having already been poised for attack, reached his limit. He shifted, bracing to fight. Dean held a hand up and Sam stopped, reluctantly settling back down in his seat.

"No, you won't." Dean said, certain.

"No?"

"No, because if you were you would have done it already. Fact is, you don't know who cut me loose. And you're just as spooked as we are. And you're looking for answers. Well, maybe it was some turbo-charged spirit. Or, uh, Godzilla. Or some big badass demon. I'm guessing at your pay grade that they don't tell you squat. Because whoever it was, they want me out. And they're a lot stronger than you. So go ahead. Send me back. But don't come crawling to me when they show up on your front doorstep with some Vaseline and a fire hose."

"I'm going to reach down your throat and rip out your lungs."

Dean leaned forward, not impacted by her empty threat in the slightest. The demon held his gaze, but wavered. He smiled, and slapped her. She took it, grimacing. He threw another. She just glared back, intensely flicking her eyes between Sam and Dean, her anxiety palpable. She wasn’t gonna do anything. They were more afraid of whatever creature tugged him out.

"That's what I thought." He stared at her intensely, giving one last chance for a reaction. No bite. "Let's go Sam."

Both boys stood, and she remained seated, barely containing her resentment. Dean stared down at her, pulling a roll of cash from his pocket. He carefully unfurled a ten from the wad and slapped it on the table.

"For the pie."

They stalked past the other demons in the diner. None of which dared make any moves either. Once through the doors, though, the brothers tough demeanor fell, feet rapidly hammering across the street.

"Holy crap, that was close." Dean breathed, searching his pocket for the Impala's keys.

Sam paused, "We're not just going to leave them in there, are we, Dean?"

"Well yeah, there's three of them, probably more, and we've only got one knife between us."

"I've been killing a lot more demons than that lately."

Dean just looked at him, incredulous for a moment, and continued to the car. "Not anymore-- the smarter brother's back in town."

"Dean, we've got to take 'em. They are dangerous."

"They're scared. Okay? Scared of whatever had the juice to yank me out. We're dealing with a bad mofo here. One job at a time."

Dean ended the conversation by hopping in the impala and starting her up. He waited for Sam to get in, hoping he wouldn't have to wrestle the kid into the car to stop him from trying to go back after them. After a minute Sam relented, and they drove back to the motel in silence.

\+ + + 

Sam had a few lore books on hand at the motel room. It was a fat chance that any of them would have the type of info they'd need on this creature they were dealing with, but they had to try anyway. Dean had dozed off somewhere in the middle of the second chapter he skimmed through, a single beer in. When he woke, the room was pitch black, save for the tv that flicked itself on to static. The radio had flicked on, too, scrolling stations. A chill ran down his spine.

Dean glanced around the room, rubbing his eyes. At the sight of the tv, he rolled to the other side of the bed and grabbed the shotgun from beneath. He stood, readying the weapon towards the door. In doing so he noticed the other bed was completely empty. He frowned, but brought the shotgun to the ready.

A high-pitched whine erupted through the room, same as the gas station, but intensifying rapidly. He groaned in pain, covering one ear while still trying to hold his weapon in the other hand. He tried to eye the room, stay alert, wait for attack, but all he could focus on were his ears turning to mush inside his skull. 

A mirror on the ceiling shattered, raining shards of glass over him and the room. The walls were quaking and the sound ramped up even more, sending Dean to the ground, dropping his gun to relent to covering both ears from the painful sound. He screamed out in pain, and Bobby burst through the door, weapon at the ready. More glass shattered in the room.

"Dean!" Bobby screamed. He bolted inside, face scrunched in pain and attempting to cover his own ears whilst helping Dean to his feet.

Then it was silent. The ringing stopped, the ground stayed still beneath their feet. The pair looked around the room, grabbing onto their weapons and waiting for something else to happen. But it didn't.

"C'mon." Bobby helped Dean to his feet, and they both hightailed it outta there.

The impala wasn't in the lot, so that meant Sam must've taken it. A small mercy that he hadn't been in the room for that ordeal. And that he likely hadn't been taken by whatever creature was on their tail.

Bobby tugged an old rag from somewhere in the back of the old Camaro after they'd both hopped in, and handed it to Dean. Dean nodded a thanks and started wiping the blood from his face.

"How you doin', kid?" Bobby prodded.

"Aside from the church bells ringing in my head, peachy." Dean pulled out his cell and dialed a number. He was gonna be pissed if that kid wasn't okay.

"Hey." Sam answered on the other line.

"What are you doing?"

"Couldn't sleep, went to get a burger."

"In my car?"

"Force of habit, sorry. What are you doing up?"

"Well, uh, Bobby's back. We're going to grab a beer." Dean glanced over at Bobby, who eyed him regarding the lie. Dean held up a finger.

"Alright, well, uh, spill some for me, huh?"

"Done. Catch you later." Dean clicked the phone closed.

"Why the hell didn't you tell him?" Bobby asked.

"Because he'd just try to stop us."

"From what?"

"Summoning this thing." They exchanged a look. Dean ignored the shock crossing Bobby's face, "It's time we faced it head-on."

"You can't be serious!" Bobby was looking between Dean and the road furiously.

"As a heart-attack. It's high noon, baby." He smirked.

"Well, we don't know what it is. It could be a demon, it could be anything."

"That's why we've got to be ready for anything." Dean pulled the demon-killing knife from his pants and waved it. "We've got the big-time magic knife, you've got an arsenal in the trunk…"

"This is a bad idea."

"Yeah, I couldn't agree more, but what other choice do we have?"

"We could choose life." Bobby offered.

Dean paused a moment, "Bobby, whatever this is, whatever it wants, it's after me. That much we know, right? I've got no place to hide. I can either get caught with my pants down again, or we can make our stand."

He relented, sighing, "Dean, we could use Sam on this."

"Nah, he's better off where he is."

No way in hell was he putting Sam into the crosshairs of something that had to do with just Dean and his time in the pit. Sam didn't have to get hurt. After all, what was all this for if Sam bit it now? No, this was something he had to deal with just he and Bobby. Ideally just he'd be the one on the chopping block, but he had to admit that some backup was needed.

He'd been dead not two days ago, hell, if he went down again here and now it'd just be the universe righting itself.

\+ + + 

Bobby finished up spraying a last symbol on the floor in white spray paint. The entire floor, ceiling and walls of the abandoned warehouse they'd found, were covered in symbols and script from a mess of different lores and religions. Covering all the bases.

While Bobby painted, Dean set up a table covered with weapons for just about any monster they'd ever come across. From different knives and stakes to guns and liquids. He was still apprehensive, and doubted that a lot of it would work on this type of beast that struck fear in the hearts of demons themselves, but it was worth a shot.

"That's a hell of an art project you've got going there." Dean said, nodding to the mess of spray-paint.

"Traps and talismans from every faith on the globe. How you doin?"

"Stakes, iron, silver, salt, knife. I mean, we're pretty much set to catch and kill anything I've ever heard of."

"This is still a bad idea."

Didn't he know it. "Yeah, Bobby, I heard you the first ten times. What do you say we ring the dinner bell?"

Bobby nodded reluctantly, heading to the table opposite Dean with a place setting of monster summoning materials. Bobby pinched some powder from a small bowl, and sprinkled it into a larger brass bowl. Smoke wafted from within, and he chanted a few phrases in Latin.

Dean looked around, ready for a smoke-show. For the walls to tremble and that high-pitched ringing to pierce the air. But... nothing. Not even a heavy breeze outside.

He looked at Bobby, who shrugged. "Don't look at me, sometimes these things take time."

A few more moments passed and Dean took a seat on the weapons table, twirling the demon-knife into the wood. Bobby followed suit and plopped on the other table, keeping his eyes adrift the room for any sign of the creature.

Dean swung his legs back and forth over the edge of the table, exhaling, "You sure you did the ritual right?" Bobby glared. "Sorry. Touchy, touchy, huh?"

As if on cue, rattling began on the tin roof, violently shaking the paneling overhead. The two men stood at the ready, shotguns braced for action, eyes darting at every corner.

"Wishful thinking, but maybe it's just the wind." Dean joked.

The overhead lights began bursting, raining sparks and glass down over their heads. The large door barred on the other end of the room burst open with ease, splintering its barrier. Sparks continued to fly as a man, or what appeared to be one, walked in. He was young, with messy dark hair, and wore a beige trenchcoat. His gaze passed curiously over the impromptu battleground, and settled on Dean Winchester. 

\+ + + 

A summoning ritual brought Castiel to a small, ramshackle warehouse on the side of a dirt road, far from any type of civilization. The man was inside, alongside another hunter. Harmless, for all Castiel was concerned. However, he exercised his power to express the strength in his abilities in their presence. The paneling of the tin roof clamored above their heads, and Castiel overloaded the lighting fixtures, sparks flying from the ceiling. The thick wooden door was boarded across from the inside, and the angel simply waved his hand to will it open. The timber on the other end cracked in half easily. 

Sigils and wards of religions from all over the globe marked the walls in white and black spray-paint. None of which were Enochian, they would have no effect on the angel. Dean Winchester and his friend stood at the opposite end of the warehouse, brandishing shotguns. They each fired off a shot, one after the other, the blasts dispersing pellets wide throughout Castiel’s torso. It stung, but was little more than a flesh wound for a creature such as himself. His coat, however, had been torn to shreds. 

He kept moving forward into the building until he stood opposite Dean Winchester. The angel offered a small smile, though the man’s eyes were wide and his stance braced for combat. Castiel kept his arms at his sides, offering no body language that he believed would hint at the same. 

This was the first time Castiel had truly seen Dean Winchester in the flesh. Quite often a person’s soul reflected its appearance in how that soul thought of themselves at their core. Dean’s had been old, marred, and twisted up grotesquely, but with an aura of light reflecting his true nature. All Castiel saw now was the light. 

“Who are you?” Dean asked. 

“I’m the one who gripped you tight and raised you from perdition.” Castiel stated in a gruff, proud tone, staring into the eyes of the man he raised from Hell. 

“Yeah. Thanks for that.” He spat back. 

Castiel offered a small nod and smile in response, not breaking his gaze from the man’s, though knowing all the while of the knife behind his back was poised and ready to use on the angel. Dean jolted forward, plunging the knife deep into Castiel’s chest, staring in shock as it made no impact whatsoever to maim this strange figure before him. The movement could have easily been stopped, but Castiel allowed him this action.

Dean watched on as Castiel kept his smile, still watching him, and pulled the knife easily from his chest. It clattered to the floor. It was clear that he did not wish to fight. If he’d been any other creature this man had surely run across, they’d use this knife against him. Castiel made no move to do such. He was a friend, even if a powerful one. 

The other man took the opening from behind Castiel, swinging a blade to the angel’s back. Castiel swung his arm back and caught the weapon with ease, still holding eye contact with Dean for a moment before breaking it to turn to the old man, blade still locked in his grip. He reached out his opposite hand and placed two fingers on the older fellow’s forehead, willing him to rest. 

The body collapsed to the ground. Castiel took no mind, knowing very well that he would be fine. Dean looked on in horror when Castiel turned back to him to meet his eyes once again. 

“We need to talk, Dean.” Castiel said, glancing down at the man on the ground. “Alone.” 

Dean crouched down to check his friend’s pulse, seeming to at least momentarily trust that he would not be harmed. Or at the least, did not care if he would be. Perhaps he cared for his friend’s well-being was more so than his own? 

It was action like that which peaked Castiel’s curiosity of the man, and he found himself willing to try understanding it. He knew it stemmed from love, but that wasn't an emotion Castiel had ever felt. He found himself wishing that he could feel such a bold trusting love as the humans before him did for one another. He wasn’t certain why. Humans were often seen foolish for the lengths they’ll go to for emotion’s sake. Dean himself giving over his soul for his brother’s life had been admirable, but Castiel could scarcely understand it. He had taken a considerable amount of time to try to. Though he could not see doing the same for his brothers, nor his brothers for him. They simply accepted the natural place of things. The natural order. 

But Dean Winchester was also a smart man. He knew, in this situation, he was needed for something greater. Why else exert so much energy clawing a soul from the depths of Hell? He had to know that Castiel was there for a reason, and it was not to kill him. At least not yet. Castiel had made that clear enough by simply not murdering them both immediately upon entrance. An act that would have cost him little energy. 

Castiel left the man to tend to his friend a moment, backing away to the table filled with materials for a spell. He leafed through an old book with a number of spells of different purposes scrawled out in messy handwriting. A tremendous amount of research had been cultivated for such a work. 

Such fascinating creatures, humans were. He realized just how often this thought kept running through his mind since Dean Winchester. To put themselves in presumable danger so willingly, and fight so strongly against forces out of their control. They’d summoned Castiel here, and presumed to fight to the death, for what? There was so much more to it that he couldn’t quite understand without humanity flowing through him himself. 

“Your friend’s alive.” Castiel stated without looking up. 

“Who are you?” Dean growled. 

“Castiel.” 

“Yeah I figured as much. I mean what are you?” 

Castiel looked up, searching the man’s eyes a moment. Still so defiant, so angry, so ready to charge at a moment’s notice. Was this rage stemmed from love as well, or was it fear? “I’m an Angel of the Lord.” 

Dean stood up, slowly, still staring Castiel down, searching his face for falsehood. “Get the hell outta here. There’s no such thing.” 

"This is your problem, Dean.” Castiel's intense gaze pierced Dean, “You have no faith."

Lightning began flashing, flooding the inside of the warehouse with white light. Castiel stood tall, and as the lighting lit up the room, the shadows of his two large feathered wings spanned the back wall, spreading wide. He knew that Dean wouldn’t be able to see their true form, but they looked to expand out from Castiel, and it was enough imagery for human perception. In a flash they were gone as the lightning ceased.

Dean scoffed, "Some angel you are, you burned out that poor woman's eyes.” 

Castiel had been ashamed of that tragedy. He averting his gaze. He realized that this human wouldn’t be able to understand that these things occur at times, and it was a part of the necessary motion of time. Nonetheless, it wasn’t something Castiel would’ve chosen to do. 

“I warned her not to spy on my true form. It can be... overwhelming to humans, and so can my real voice.” Castiel had realized his error a little too late at the motel the men had occupied. Another shameful mistake. “But you already knew that.” 

“You mean the gas station and the motel. That was you _talking?”_ Castiel nodded in response. “Buddy, next time, lower the volume.” 

He couldn’t help but smile. Knowing that an angel’s voice could kill a human if not held in check, such a vast understatement was humorous. “That was my mistake. Certain people, special people, can perceive my true visage. I thought you would be one of them. I was wrong.” 

“And what visage are you in now, huh? What, holy tax accountant?” 

“This?” Castiel looked down at his own body, touching the flaps of the trenchcoat damaged from gunfire. “This is... a vessel.” 

“You’re possessing some poor bastard?” Dean sounded offended. 

“He’s a devout man, he actually prayed for this.” Castiel assured with a smile. 

“Well, I’m not buying what you’re selling, so who are you really?” 

Castiel frowned, searching the man’s face, confused, “I told you.” 

“Right. And why would an angel rescue _me_ from hell?” He was defiant, jaw clenched, and it was then that Castiel truly saw it become clear again in the pit of the man's soul. The dark edges of fear, and anger, and self-loathing swirling deep within himself, just below the surface. Castiel had known what Dean Winchester had done in Hell. He knew what he’d been taught. What he’d accepted in himself. What he’d enjoyed doing. He’d seen it himself in the man just before laying a hand on his soul in the pit. But that wasn’t all he’d seen. That wasn’t all he knew. Dean Winchester was far more than a few things that he’d done and was more still than all that had happened to him. He was a righteous man. _The_ righteous man. 

“Good things _do_ happen, Dean.” 

“Not in my experience.”

“What’s the matter?” Castiel tilted his head to the side, scrutinizing Dean Winchester, trying to see the man how he saw himself, but couldn’t. “You don’t think you deserve to be saved?” 

“Why’d you do it?” Dean’s voice had weakened, but eyes still held a defiance. He didn’t believe he deserved to be saved. There wasn’t a bone in his body that believed that, after everything in the pit. But it wasn’t something he would easily admit, because he was also a man of pride and ferocity. The last thing he’d do was allow weakness to penetrate for others to see. Castiel wasn’t most people. He saw Dean for more than he was on the surface, and in the most intimate parts of his soul. 

Castiel looked deep into the eyes of the man before him, willed him to see his importance. “Because God commanded it. Because we have work for you.”


End file.
